


Plastic Guns

by foggysundays



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Guns, M/M, Memories, Pining, Pre-Series, Stanford Era, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 01:10:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12332466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foggysundays/pseuds/foggysundays
Summary: Sam is only trying to have a fun afternoon with friends.But his past is never completely gone and sometimes memories resurface whether he wants them to or not.





	Plastic Guns

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be my contribution to the Wincest Writing Challenge on tumblr for September, but alas, the Gods of the Internet have not been kind to me and so I´m super fucking late and feeling like the worst person ever. Sorry for taking so long!!!!  
> On the plus side: my internet is back, bitches (after not working for nearly three weeks), and I seriously couldn’t be happier about it :D Guess I´m an addict after all…

* * *

**‘Sully´s Amusement Arcade’**

* * *

 

The letters are huge and brightly illuminated, a siren song trying to lure people in.

Sam laughs at Jess´ squeal of excitement when she spots the colorful lights and neon signs surrounding the place and he doesn’t even try to resist when she pulls him along to the entrance. Their other friends seem less thrilled at the prospect, but none of them protests in earnest, their initial reluctance disappearing entirely when they come face to face with the sheer endless rows of arcade cabinets and their inner ten-year-olds take over.

Jess is having the time of her life as she makes them play one ridiculous game after the other and insists on trying some of the overly sweet and brightly colored drinks they serve at the bar. They goof around, try their best to earn new high scores or defeat each other in Mario Kart and Pac-Man, Tetris and Donkey Kong.

Sam´s an absolute mess.

He can´t keep up with anyone, drives his tiny digital car down every abyss and into every fucking wall he can find, and is absolutely unable to get the damn monkey thing to jump high enough to escape the barrels.

It´s still glorious. Fun. Relaxing. _Normal_.

One of those casual-afternoons-with-friends that other people indulge in regularly, where their only objective is to enjoy themselves and laugh at and with each other, where school work and other worries are far from their minds and unimportant, irrelevant.

Sometimes Sam still can´t believe that this is his life now, that he´s allowed to have fun without purpose, doesn’t have to watch his back for potential threats or check the time to make sure that he´s back before Dad notices his absence.

Amusement Arcades might be a dying form of entertainment now, but in his childhood, they were omnipresent – colorful, happy places full of children, laughter and forbidden things, a window to a world where parents didn’t leave or die, where money wasn’t short and fathers didn’t care if you´d finished translating that Ancient Greek text on blood magic or not.

Sam had always loathed and loved these places with equal fervor. Loathed them because they were just another point on a long list of reasons why he didn’t fit in with the other children, loved them because sometimes Dean would just tell the world to fuck off and pull Sam into an arcade anyway.

They never had much money to spend on games or arcade food, usually just a few meager dollars that would allow them to play a game or two, and so they mostly watched as other people enjoyed themselves. It was wonderful nonetheless, a few short moments of escape and innocent fun.

Well, Sam´s _still_ pretty low on money and will probably have to eat ramen for two weeks straight after this indulgence, but having a shot at ‘normal’ is more than worth a bit of discomfort.

It would be great not to suck at everything, though, and so he´s more than thankful when Brady suddenly wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him along with the promise of a game that´s supposed to be more in his area of expertise.

Sam´s not sure what he expected or how Brady knew, but it certainly wasn´t this.

 _Zombie Wars III_ – one of those ego shooter games where your only goal is to shoot as many of your adversaries as possible without getting yourself killed first.

It´s perfect. Frighteningly so, probably the one game in the whole arcade that Sam could win easily if he wanted to.

It´s also way too close to his real life, _to his old life_ , for comfort. There´s too many memories.

 

* * *

 

Sam´s seven the first time he shoots a gun.

He´s seen them before, of course. Touched them, disassembled them, helped Dean fill rock salt into empty shotgun shells - it´s normal, pretty much inevitable in a world where your Dad spends more time and money on his weapon arsenal than on his own kids, and where gun cleaning and maintenance is as much part of their daily routine as brushing one´s teeth and washing one´s face before bed time.

But up until today he´s never been allowed to _use_ them, to click the safety off and take aim, to pull the trigger and finally see if he´s talented enough to make Dad happy for once, to have Dean smile at him in that one special way that makes it obvious how proud he is.

So yeah, the night before, Sam´s excited - almost queasy with anxiety and a weird mixture of fear and anticipation that makes sleep impossible. It´s so bad that even crawling into Dean´s bed and curling into his brother´s side is not enough to calm him down and he lies awake for most of the night, mentally going through the gun safety rules and shooting stances Dean has taught him.

Morning comes both too fast and not fast enough and he´s barely able to stomach his meager serving of soggy lucky charms. His fidgeting gets only worse when Dad stumbles in a few moments later and blindly grabs the oversized coffee mug Dean is holding out to him, gulping it down in long, greedy swallows before impatiently gesturing at them to get into the car

Thirty-three minutes later finds them all at the edge of the forest, Dad pacing up and down in front of them as he gives another one of his gun-safety-speeches. Sam isn’t listening, has heard them all a million times and more, but he still doesn’t dare sneak a glance at Dean for fear of earning himself an even longer lecture due to his inattention.

Finally, _finally_ John stops and presses a small pistol into Sam´s shaking hands. They go through the correct stance together, Sam trying to mimic what he´s seen Dean do, John adjusting and correcting until Sam´s deemed to be in the perfect position, safety already clicked off, gun aimed straight at one of the empty beer cans a few feet away.

The recoil is more powerful than he´d expected, the force of it rattling his whole body and causing him to stumble backwards - it´s loud and unconformable and it makes his ears ring.

Sam doesn’t like it.

He´s watched Dean handle a gun for years now, has memorized every movement and posture and trick his brother knows and Sam has always been a quick study and really good at picking up new skills, but this is different. This is so very unlike any of his books – he can study guns, read everything about shooting, but for the first time in his life, theoretical knowledge alone just isn’t _enough_.

Sam´s not improving. Fifteen tries and he still hasn’t shot anything, has missed each and every single time and he´s closer to tears than he´s been in years, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding back his frustration. It doesn’t help that John´s impatience is almost palpable and his instructions are getting increasingly rough and snappy.

But then Dean´s there, warm hands carefully adjusting Sam´s stance, low voice whispering instructions and encouragements.

“Breath, Sammy. I know you can do it! Forget about Dad, it´s just us out here… Just you and me, Sam. C´mon, _breath_.”

And Sam does. Aims and breaths and _wills_ the stupid bullet to finally hit home.

It´s still surprising when it _does_ , when the can falls off its perch with a clatter and then Dean runs off and picks it up, holds it high enough that both Sam and John can see the wide bullet hole right in the middle of it, pride and joy shining brightly in his face.

John just nods, only somewhat appeased and grumpily declares that Dean is going to be teaching Sam from now on.

And that´s everything Sam´s ever hoped for.

Dean is patient. He´s the perfect teacher, gentle and kind where Dad is harsh and demanding, quietly talking him through every step, praising him when he deserves it, silently correcting him when he doesn´t. They practice for hours and days and weeks. Aim and shoot and aim again, cans and bottles and moving targets until Sam is every bit as good and fast and confident as Dean himself is.

Until he´s so close to perfection that even John has to acknowledge it.

Until he´s good enough to be able to protect himself. To protect Dean.

 

* * *

 

 “Come on, Winchester! Show us how your geeky ass can handle a gun!”

Sam blinks and suddenly he´s back at the arcade, his friends surrounding him, cheering him on, telling him to take the gun and give it a try.

Jess is jumping up and down in front of him, all excited joy and green-eyed encouragement. She´s beautiful in that moment, gorgeous, _perfect_ and Sam knows she´s absolutely gone for him already.

He also knows he should love her just as much, that he could be happy with her, that she deserves his full attention, his undivided devotion.

Instead, all he can think of is strong hands gliding over cold metal, calloused fingers disassembling guns and rifles with practiced, sure movements, confidence in every grip and push and pull. And then those same hands gliding over his skin, handling him with the same power and firmness, knowing exactly where and how to touch, warm lips on his ear, a deep voice whispering filth and praise and promises.

But Sam left. Sam ran. Left his old life. Left everything. _All of it_. Forever.

 _Fuck_.

Unthinkingly, he steps forward, steals the gun from Brady´s grasp and takes his place in front of the screen.

The gun feels strange in his hands. The weight and balance is off – it´s too light, too artificial. Lifeless plastic instead of cool metal, there´ll be no recoil to compensate for, no deafening noise will accompany each shot, and for a moment Sam almost misses the familiar weight of his old gun. There´s no time to ponder, though, because loud music swells up all around him and then ridiculous, zombie-esque creatures are closing in on him on wobbly legs.

Sam stops to think and suddenly he´s calmer than he has been in _months._ Instincts kick in and he simply allows himself to react, to adjust his body, to aim and shoot and kill one zombie after the other, cold precision and familiar reflexes taking over. He shoots, shoots like Dean taught him to all those years ago, fast and sure and unfailing and he knows he´s fucking nailed it even before the cheering starts and some high-pitched computer voice proudly proclaims him the new record holder.

The world comes rushing back and then Jess is hugging him, kissing him, screaming into his ear while Brady is staring at him slack jawed and Conner loudly demands to know where he´s learned to shoot like that.

His friends cheer and laugh and shout as they pull him over to the bar to celebrate his victory and they´ve only just reached it when the high score music goes off a second time.

There´s a new record. Sam has been beaten.

Jess´ shout of indignation is flattering and amusing all at once, and Sam´s lips are curling into a tiny smile even as he turns around to face his rival, his whole body freezing as soon as his eyes fall on the tall figure of a man leaning against the gaming console.

He´s still wearing the same old leather jacket and combat boots, ratty jeans that desperately need to be washed, a thin leather cord disappearing under his black shirt.

Green eyes stare back at him, mischievous and cocky and all kinds of smug and then Dean slowly raises the fake gun, aims it straight at Sam und pulls the trigger with a wink.


End file.
